


Right in the Riddle

by Miss_SpiritualTramp_1948



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Politics, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:01:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28278828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_SpiritualTramp_1948/pseuds/Miss_SpiritualTramp_1948
Summary: In the first three months of her employ in the Riddle household, Harry developed; an ache in her back, an ache in her knees, and – most pleasurably – an ache in her jaw.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 3
Kudos: 46





	Right in the Riddle

  


**1996**

  


The house was even more grand than Harry imagined from the advertisement listed in the back of the West London Gazette. _Domestic servant, Belgravia_ read the bold lettering. _Live-in. Discretion required._

  


It was set in a wide treeless procession of Georgian townhouses, the sort of rarefied setting where people had four surnames and wore gilets without self-effacement or irony. Standing before the tall black door, Harry went up and knocked. 

  


A young boy opened the door. He had black curled hair set against a pale face. He looked at Harry with a childish moue of curiosity; slightly interested but, also, slightly disdainful. Harry smiled.

  


“Oliver, who is it?” an older woman’s voice rang out from the hall. 

  


The boy tilted his head, appraised Harry’s slightly greying plimsolls. “I think she’s here to sell us something, Mummy” he said, smirking. Harry was quietly indignant at that; she had put a bit of effort into her appearance today. She just couldn’t afford new clothes right now.

  


An older woman approached the door, and Oliver shuffled behind her.

  


“Hello…” The woman seemed cautious. “I’m afraid, I’m not interested in…”

  


“Hello, Lady Cecilia is it?” Harry asked. “I’m Harriet, well _Harry_. We spoke on the phone. I’m here regarding the role as a domestic servant.” 

  


“Oh, of course” Cecilia seemed relieved. “Yes, do come in” she smiled, ushering Harry into a wide hall. “I’m sure you’ll be most delighted with the Riddle household” 

  


***

  


In the first three months of her employ in the Riddle household, Harry developed; an ache in her back, an ache in her knees, and – most pleasurably – an ache in her _jaw_. The work was draining and lonely, as she moved systematically through the house, cleaning the wide vacant rooms. Each room was full of surprising discoveries, though; an original Turner sketch tucked behind Oliver’s school photo, a cellar full of vintage Bollinger, a secret bookshelf in Lord Riddle’s library hiding a dusty hardback entitled ‘ _SEX and the Church of England: A practical guide’_. 

  


Mainly, Harry had Oliver for company. Annoyingly precocious little Ollie, _Puck-like_ , who had inherited his father’s striking good looks but apparently none of his distemper. Who, despite it all, was _good_ – was the only one who would reach out at the end, when…

  


Oliver enjoyed flustering Harry with the latest family gossip – Uncle Morphin’s coat-room exploits at the Vanity Fair Gala, a certain Earl of Gaunt who liked to pick up young men in the bathrooms at Gloucester Road station. Oliver leant against the doorway, twisting his longish dark hair in pale fingers, as Harry polished the floor and he regaled her with his little tales.

  


Oliver was really the only one who acknowledged her, who thanked her when she came to clear the dishes. The only one who put his laundry in the hamper, instead of, well, anywhere else (even the Right Honourable Lord Riddle threw his towels on the floor, and Harry wondered what his rural constituency would think of that).

  


And so, one morning, when Oliver marched into the room, and announced that his older brother, Tom, was coming back after Michaelmas, Harry thought little of it.

  


“You know, he is a terrible bore – all he cares about is politics and girls” he said. “And I do hope he doesn’t bring that awful Walburga home, she’s a screamer.”

  


Harry hummed non-committally, as she cleaned the fireplace, working on keeping the soot inside the grate and decidedly _not_ on Lady Cecilia’s Sarouk rug.

  


“Tom used to visit more often, but then, you know, Mummy found his cocaine hidden in the geranium pots” Ollie walked up next to Harry, looked down at her expectantly, willing her to be impressed with the grown-up seriousness of his story.

  


Harry expelled a puff of air, took the bait. “Well, Ollie it’s quite disturbing that you should know that. How is your brother now?”

  


“Oh? Tom’s fine” Oliver flicked a piece of lint off his collared shirt. “And don’t worry, Harry” he said sagely. “I have no inclination to try cocaine. Tom says I am already too grandiose and witty without it” 

  


Harry turned around, gave him a flinty look. “That isn’t very reassuring”

  


***

  


Harry had entered Tom’s room once before, just after Tom himself had gone to Oxford, leaving behind the upturned geranium pots on the rug. She’d vacuumed up the soil on the floor and stood, for some long moment, holding three little bags of white powder in her hand. She’d tucked one into her bra, and then, resolved, placed the other two neatly in the drawer of Tom’s bedside table.

  


Now, as Harry stood at the threshold of the room again she felt strangely breathless. There was an overbearing solemnity to the room – a floor to ceiling bookshelf at one end stacked with what looked like Waterstone’s entire political economy section. The oak bed was a serious affair for a young man; made up with a dark green coverlet and draped curtains on each side. She flopped herself face down into the bed and, for no reason she could fathom besides a release of tension, licked a long stripe down the centre of one of the pillows.

  


There was a picture of Tom on the bedside table, gesticulating to a crowd, wearing a black tuxedo like some sort of advertisement for the British Establishment. Beneath the photo, a caption read; _Oxford Union, 1993, Tom Riddle._

  


_Riddle._ What a curious name.

  


***

  


That night, Harry lay awake with the window open. Outside, the wind was rushing against the house, bringing in the damp scent of the garden and the turn of Winter. 

  


Her room was on the ground floor; narrow, and oddly tear drop shaped as it curved round the spiral staircase which sprawled in the centre of the house. At the top of the staircase, was Tom’s bedroom – perched exactly above hers, empty, awaiting the return of its master.

  


At last, Harry’s breathing became deep and even. She dreamt of a wet stone chamber, a giant snake. She stroked its shimmering scales, and felt the powerful coil of its muscles shift beneath its skin. She laid her head next to it on the ground and saw its mouth was full of blood, not from prey, but from some puncture wound through its skull.

  


Harry shuttered awake, a strange taste in her throat. Today, Tom would arrive. 


End file.
